Cutting through the pain of haircuts

Have you ever had to endure torture? Well, I have, and so have you. On Wednesday the 25th of January, I – wait for this – had a haircut. If that doesn’t immediately draw you in, I don’t know what will. I know it may be a bit over the top to call this torture, but bear with me.

First of all, booking a haircut. That’s harder than you may think, mainly because I’m not sure the exact sentence that I should say when calling up. I mean, I know it’s not “Hello fine sir or madame, I wish to purchase one haircut, jolly good show” but apart from that, I’m a bit lost. Do I say I want an appointment? That seems a bit too formal and makes it sound like I think I’m going to see a doctor. Perhaps, I could just ask for a haircut. That still feels somewhat lacking; last time I tried that there was an awkward silence where I think the person on the end of the line expected me to say more words. Phone’s bad enough, but in person is much worse. Last time I tried this, it did not go well. I was walking confidently, not cockily strutting mind, but with the vague swagger of a man on a mission: for I, was about to get my haircut. As I opened the door, coat billowing in the wind, I suddenly started to panic and sweat, profusely. Shit. I hopefully thought in my head. I don’t have an opening line. I have no way to open this conversation. I know why I’m here, they know why I’m here, what do I say. I think I went with “errrrr, errrrr, haircut?” A regular James Bond, I know.

You’re sat down in a chair and then asked what you want done with it, at which point you fumble around for an explanation that matches the image in your head. When you finally decide on the style you have the “This much? No, okay, this much? How about this much?” at which point you usually just say yes as you don’t want to be too much bother and make a fuss. Although inside you’re terrified they’re about to chop off way more than has been agreed.

...“errrrr, errrrr, haircut?” A regular James Bond, I know

Hair wet, person with sharp objects near your neck, suspended in a chair beneath a layer of protection from the spill of stuff being cut off you: this is when the real torture is about to start. It’s a tense moment, worthy of any Bond scene. “Do you expect me to talk?” “No, Mr Arbabzadah, I expect you to make cheerful small talk, and look as if you’re not secretly regretting the length you’re letting me cut off”. Maybe I’m slightly exaggerating, it’s not that bad talking, but it can be a bit awkward. Especially when, after seeing the amount of hair falling on the floor and how it’s starting to shape up, you’re making a face akin to a deer in the headlights. There’s also the classic moment when you realise that you had spaced out, trying to tell yourself that it’s okay as you’re only half way through and it will look totally different when finished, and had been asked a simple direct question. That’s when you go into full back-in-school-teacher-has-picked-on-me-I-wasn’t-listening mode and forget that, as an adult, you can just say that you didn’t hear as a hair dryer drowned them out.

Next comes the big reveal. It’s all been leading up to this point and… fuck, (as I have to mix up my swear words a bit, I need a plethora of options to choose from) this is not exactly as I had planned it. Crap, (see, mixing it up) this doesn’t look quite as good as it did in my head. Why exactly did I make myself so handsome in my head; that was a terrible idea. It seems they have cut it how I wanted, but my own face and head has let me down. At this point, you realise that, actually, it’s always like this. It’ll take a few days or so for it to grow out and adopt the style you were aiming for. By the time it does, you’ll be used to it and all will be fine. Panic over, disaster averted. Well, until the next time...